Going My Way
by bewinsome
Summary: kinkmeme prompt: Sherlock and John are stranded at an airport; the results are as spectacular as they are to be expected.


AN: Ironically, I have finished this while on a plane. Ah the joys of going Denver to Houston on a DELAYED REDEYE. Yes, you read that correctly. Pardon me while I plot for the downfall of United. All rights to the BBC, etc.

o*O*o*O*o*O*o

John, while not particularly fond of airports, was used to them. Getting hauled pillar to post with the army meant a fair bit of time in the sky. Frequently, they were simply loading up from military airbases so the wait was minimal but getting in an out of Britain for leave meant more civilian means of travel. Sherlock, on the other hand, loathed airports. The waiting, the stupidity of airport attendants, the inanity of the mass of bodies milling around him; none of it was appreciated.

"Sir, please move away from the bag."

"As it's my bag, I believe I'll stand where I please."

"Sir, if you do not move away I'll have to escort you to holding."

"Now look here-" Sherlock wuffed air out as John's elbow connected firmly with his ribs.

"Sherlock." John snaked an arm through on of the detectives. "We'll just be over here, miss."

Sherlock was making one of his more elaborately disgusted faces. "She's positively _pawing_ through everything."

"I know, Sherlock, but could you please try to have a little patience." The look on John's face was more desperate than pleading.

Admittedly, it had been a long week what with a KKK revival and an all out brawl in the middle of shipyard with no small amount of gunfire. John dearly hoped that was the last round of Moriarty's copycats but he wasn't optimistic. He could kill Lestrade for releasing the bit about the pips. Absolutely kill him.

Sherlock glanced at the TSA agent who was currently disassembling his carry-on luggage for all to see. His neatly folded shirts and pants were now in disarray and his morocco case full of chemistry paraphernalia was being inspected. John had forced him to send all the biological samples to Bart's via a medical shipping group and then proceeded to dump his newly acquired collection of ammonium chloride and liquid nitrogen down the sink. He supposed he should have felt a bit bad about not labeling the bottles but the ensuing reaction had been spectacular.

"Sir, what is this?"

"Titration clamp."

"Sir, all sex toys should be placed in checked baggage."

Sherlock's bellowing rage and John's uncontrollable hysteria erupted simultaneously. After the noise had calmed a bit, the agent finally declared the bag safe for transport.

"You can repack your bag now, but then I will need to carry it to your gate."

"So now you're my butler? How quaint. And very un-American of you."

John shot Sherlock a look and hoisted his own bag up onto his good shoulder. Sherlock took his time refolding and repacking the contents of his case partly to annoy the TSA agent but mostly because he was that obsessive about his clothing. As they trooped through the terminal John leaned towards Sherlock.

"So, sex toys…"

"Do shut up."

"I honestly didn't think you could blush."

Sherlock gave a dismissive grunt.

"No, really. So it takes a man in uniform, huh? Maybe I should retrieve my Class A's from storage."

"John. If you are not ever so kind as to drop the subject I will ensure that the eight hours we are suspended over the Atlantic Ocean will be the most miserable of your life. All time in Afghanistan included."

John decided to let it drop but couldn't keep the smirk entirely at bay.

The agent left them after handing Sherlock's bag to the gate agent and the two were left to their own devices for the remaining hour until their flight.

Sherlock began monitoring the other clientele of the airline. Tracing who would likely prove to ensure a horrendously boring flight back to London and who would provide the most entertainment outside of John because he could only be harassed for so long before he refused to be of use. And Sherlock _hated_ that because it meant he would be insufferable if a case was readily available in London.

John watched as he zeroed in on a middle aged man showing clear signs of being on his way to see a mistress under guise of a business trip. That was liable to land them both on a no-fly list, and while John was sure Mycroft could arrange for that particular charge to never have happened, he didn't really want the stress in the interim. He poked Sherlock in the ribs and nodded his head towards an elderly lady who he suspected of carrying far more things in her bag than were entirely legal. John was immensely pleased with himself when he saw Sherlock's eyebrow arch in speculation. There, problem solved. John could have a quiet flight (and possibly some much needed sleep) and Sherlock could abuse the woman's carpetbag.

John wandered off the restroom content that Sherlock was not likely to cause much of a fuss between now and boarding. Of course, assumptions about Sherlock are dangerous in the best case and positively apocalyptic in the worst. Thus, when John heard the very distinct sounds of a scuffle as he was washing his hands, he snatched up his bag and bolted out into the terminal fairway. Here he discovered Sherlock fist to fist with what was clearly one of the skinheads they hadn't managed to arrest making what was clearly going to be a failed attempt to get out of the country.

The skinhead managed to get hold of the lapel of Sherlock's greatcoat and spun him into a bank of chairs before bolting down the fairway. John took two steps forward and then swung his bag full force into the convict's face. So much for him doing a runner. John squatted down to check his vitals. As he looked up to see Sherlock straightening his coat he noticed just over his flatmate's shoulder that at least three security guards were running at them. Oh goodie, this was going to be loads of fun to explain to the proper authorities and still make their flight.

John sighed as a security guard skidded around the corner and pointed a taser gun at him.

"No mate, this one down here."

Suddenly Sherlock appeared behind the guard and leaned around him to inspect John's handy work.

"Didn't damage your computer did it?"

"No. Wouldn't think so anyway. It's survived you hasn't it?"

Sherlock made a face at John before turning his attention to the security guard who was staring at both of them, taser now limply twitching between three different people.

"Well, are you going to take this man into custody? That is your job is it not?" Sherlock asked in his typically imperious manner.

"Now look here mister, your friend just clocked this guy in the head with his bag. He's the one I'm taking in."

Sherlock started to explain to the man why he was lower than plankton on the evolutionary scale but John interrupted, "Sorry, but he's wanted for manslaughter and drug trafficking in Houston."

"We don't have any bolos on him."

"Of course not," said Sherlock, "no one knew what he looked like until now."

"Well then how could you possibly know that he's wanted?"

"Oh please do you see his jacket? Clear signs having used the lining to hold packets of cocaine, the stitching is still loose from the last time. Not to mention the fresh tattoo you're going to find on his bicep marking him as a traitor to his clan."

"Clan? What?"

" He's part of a neo-nazi group," John said diplomatically.

"The hell? That's it. You're all coming down to holding with me. This is all bullshit as far as I'm concerned."

"Not interested in keeping your job then?"

"Sherlock."

"John, the man is clearly a fool and we haven't time to hold his hand through this if we're going to be back in London in time to pick up the Moran Case."

"The missing colonel? I thought you declined."

"Mmm. Yes, well, I've had new information since."

"Right. Alright, here's how this going to work then," said John, turning back to the guard, "you're going to want to get your superior down here and in the mean time I'm going to get Detective Beaudeen on the phone and we can get this cleared up."

The man on the floor started to stir and Sherlock discreetly applied enough pressure with his foot to the man's throat that he wouldn't regain consciousness again any time soon. The guard didn't notice but John shot him a dirty look. Sherlock looked mildly pleased with himself.

Fifteen minutes later after a lot of blustering on the part of airport security, excessive smugness from Sherlock, and are rather severe dressing down from the Houston Police Department, the skinhead was hauled off, still unconscious, and John and Sherlock were allowed to board their flight.

"Nice hit, by the way."

John stared at him. "Sorry?"

"You heard me. You're not that starved for appreciation are you?"

"Er, no. You just don't usually compliment me for things you seem to expect me to do anyway."

"Well, it was a good hit. Perfect rebound of his skull off the floor as well. Hmm, I wonder if the arc ratio varies significantly based on tile composition?"

"Sherlock," John rubbed his brow, "please, we already have one head in the fridge we don't need more."

"Hmm, no, I'd have to do it at Bart's. More room to properly measure splatter patterns for instances of excessive force and variance in height."

"Jesus. One of these day's I'm going to learn not to ask."

Slowly, Sherlock smiled. "But if you don't ask you'll never know."

Sherlock sighed heavily as he looked around the terminal.

"What do you propose we do for the next five hours?"

"You can't be bored already. And what do you mean five hours? We should be boarding in," John checks his watch, "the next ten minutes."

"Mmm. But that flight from the Yucatan was supposed to be our plane and it is late by more than an hour and a redirected flight takes an hour to be cleared from Denver and another two hours to get here. Give at least an extra hour for typical air traffic incompetence."

John's face fell progressively throughout Sherlock's analysis.

"Shit."

"Prosaic. But agreed."

"Why didn't we ask Mycroft for assistance, again?"

"Because he's in Madrid this week and, mostly, because he's a git."

John slid his eyes sideways to glance at Sherlock.

"Prosaic," he said archly, "but agreed."

* * *

Two hours later Sherlock had harassed one businesswoman and two teenagers into tears and made five feet of daisy chain from Starburst wrappers. None of which he had eaten as evidenced by the mass of candy scattered around their seats which mothers were desperately trying to steer their small children away from.

"I need another package."

"No."

"John. I require another package."

"And I said 'no.' Jesus, how are you not bored of that yet? _I'm_ bored of it."

"Mmm. It's oddly calming. And I wanted to see how many times you would get up to go to the shop. Seven reinforces your patience with me but doesn't provide enough alternative stimuli to determine your overall indulgence."

"You…urgh. Ok. Ok. You're bored. Obviously. What will keep you occupied and those children out of a sugar coma?"

"I still have my kit. We could test the friction coefficient of hand soap when applied to tile floors."

"Did I mention I would like not to be put in holding by the TSA?"

"Fine. Your recommendation?"

"How many people do you think are in this airport right now?"

Sherlock sighed, "47,000 give or take 100. Are you done insulting my intellect yet?"

John shook his head. "You're missing the point. 47000 people. How many are likely to be criminals? Forgoing the one we already caught of course."

Sherlock eyed John, "You're suggesting a man hunt?"

"Nothing so involved. But if we could identify, say, ten? We could point the authorities in the proper direction."

Sherlock sat quietly for a few minutes.

"Make it twenty as we have an entire hour left to our disposal."

Several hours later Sherlock and John were suspended peacefully above the Atlantic Ocean. Meanwhile, in Houston, several gate agents were finding very disturbing sticky notes attached to their call-phones.


End file.
